Very slowly, Porthos drags his thumb up and down the bones of Athos' wrist, settling on the pulse so he can keep it there and assess whether it jumps while they speak. "I don't think that man has a genuine friend in the world," Porthos notes. "Imagine my surprise when it turned out that he was one of the good guys," he snorts. He leans in a step more, eyes scanning Athos' face. "Do you always colour so easily?"